A Bridge Across Time

We sat on the rocks, in the shadow of the bridge outside of Bonnieux, where the stream carved quiet pathways through the ash-colored stones. The hum of unseen frogs rose and fell, their calls as steady as the mistral. The afternoon sun poured golden light across the landscape, softening the edges of the world and casting Provence in its timeless glow. This was Provence, where every turn of the road reveals a place so perfect it defies comparison. In that moment, Pont Julien was not merely a bridge — it was an ancient and knowing threshold that had held the weight of Roman feet and now cradled the slow rhythm of our evening.

The bridge stood stoic above us, a monument to a time when utility and grace were one. Until recently, cars rumbled across its arches with no thought to the centuries they traversed. But we hadn’t come here to marvel at the engineering or trace the outlines of its history; we came for the silence, for the way the late-day light filtered through the curves of stone, turning the world to honey. The Luberon had gifted us a day of wandering—black olive tapenade from Gordes, rust-colored dust clinging to our shoes in Roussillon, and a bottle of rosé chilled just enough to temper the heat of the sun. Now, the spoils of our adventure lay before us: fresh bread, cheese, olives, and grape tomatoes glinting like small treasures. Meals like this never need ceremony. They need only the right place and the right person to transform them into something unforgettable.

The light shifted, as it does in Provence, fading from the bright yellow of sunflower fields to the dusky amber of a Ricard poured just so. The banks revealed their quiet story, framed by grass and the remnants of spring’s retreating waters. Tall, soft, grass, the blades bent over by the weight of young, small snails their shells like tiny spirals of time unwinding, provided seclusion. The cicadas sang their relentless chorus, a sound so constant it felt more like a force of nature than a collection of insects. And the tannic water carved its way though the sand colored rocks, creating small pools which provided refuge for the small but boisterous frogs.

My wife leaned against me, and we spoke in low tones about the day, about the year, about the strange pull that this place had on us—as if Provence itself had drawn us here to remind us of something we’d forgotten. We had come on the occasion of a major birthday and I had earlier mentioned that in Marseille, I might want to get a tattoo. A single, small tattoo on my left shoulder of the simple symbol that we used to signify our love. To both mark the occasion and celebrate our relationship.

In my family, tattoos were taboo, as were long hair, bold fashion, or anything else that might draw attention. Conformity was the unspoken rule, and my father was its steadfast enforcer, the arbiter of what was acceptable and what was not. Even now, 25 years after his death, the anger lingered—a quiet ember refusing to extinguish. As we sipped our rosé, the landscape stretching before us, my wife broke the silence. “Do you still want the tattoo?” she asked, her voice as soft as the breeze threading through the trees.

I paused, looking out at the bridge. “I don’t think so,” I said. “It wasn’t about me—it was about proving something to someone who isn’t even here anymore.”

Her smile was soft, like the light that fell across the bridge. “I’m glad. And I’m happy that you finally came to that realization,” she said. And in that moment, it struck me that we carry so much of what we think we’ve left behind. Provence has a way of peeling back the layers, of showing you not just the beauty of the world but the fault lines within yourself. We are all bridges, spanning what we were and what we long to be.

There is a law of food that says eating something where it is made will never taste the same elsewhere. And when shared with someone who knows the depth of your silences, it becomes something eternal. I thought of this as I spread the tapenade across a piece of baguette. That bread, that cheese, that wine would never taste as good again. But perfection is not the point. It is the memory, the lingering essence of it, that persists—etched into the soul like Pont Julien’s stones, weathered but never erased.

Black Olive Tapenade

INGREDIENTS

• 1 cup of fresh ripe (black) olives, pitted. Do not use canned olives, but if you must, use Kalamata olives.
• 2 garlic cloves
• 2 anchovy fillets, rinsed of oil and chopped
• 2 tsp capers.
• 1/2 tsp fresh thyme, chopped
• 1 tbsp fresh lemon juice
• 1/4 tsp zest of lemon
• 1/2 cup good quality extra virgin olive oil
• pinch of course salt
• freshly ground black pepper

DIRECTIONS

1. This is best if you use a stone mortar and pestle but can be made in a food processor as well. If making in a food processor, skip the chopping of the olives.
2. Mince garlic and sprinkle with the pinch of course salt. Don’t use much as the capers will add the required saltiness. Using the side of your knife, smash the salt and garlic into a paste.
3. Chop the olives and place in the pestle with the chopped anchovies, capers, thyme, lemon juice, and lemon zest. Using the mortar, crush and stir into a paste consistency. Leave as chunky or smooth as you desire.
4. If using a food processor, place olives, anchovies, capers, thyme, lemon juice, and lemon zest in the bowl and process until desired consistency. 
5. Transfer olive mixture to a small bowl and stir in olive oil.
6. Salt and pepper if desired.

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